


Reunion

by maedhbros



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:49:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maedhbros/pseuds/maedhbros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor and Sauron meet again. Pre-Dagor Dagorath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

It’s been so long.

 

There are so many things to say, and no words in all the tongues of Arda with which to tell them.

 

And so Sauron tells him with his hands, reaching out tentatively, almost warily at first. His fingertips along the side of his master’s face are whisper-soft, barely there, and when his palm reaches Melkor’s shoulder it hovers for a moment before setting down. Then his fingers clench around the rough armor, still the same set he wore when he was thrown beyond the Door of Night.

 

Sauron’s face is a wound ripped open anew, the raw grief mixed with hope in his eyes make Melkor’s gut twist in something frightfully akin to pain. The Black Foe of the World opens his mouth–to say what, he doesn’t know, because for the first time in his long life he has absolutely no idea what to do–but then Sauron, faithful, loyal Sauron pulls himself toward Melkor’s chest, and buries his face in the crook of his neck. His grip is like a vise, the fragile human body he inhabits surprisingly strong, and he clutches his master like a man clinging to a piece of wood in a shipwreck, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Melkor brings his arms around his servant in an embrace, and for a  moment mistakes the shaking of his shoulders for laughter

 

_for he used to laugh often and loudly, and his laugh was defiance and joy and wholly inappropriate and Melkor has missed that sound_

 

Until he realizes that his lieutenant is _sobbing_ in his arms, and his neck is wet with tears born from thousands of years of loneliness and failure. Melkor sucks in a sharp breath of air (he had never, even with millennia to brood, imagined a greeting such as this) and ignores the utterly foreign pricking behind his eyeballs.

 

The mightiest of the Valar does not weep. He lets his servant weep for him; he lets him drain the festering abscess of their story onto his skin, grips his slender body in his arms so tightly he fears he’ll snap in half. There are no words of comfort other than Melkor’s rough breaths at Sauron’s ear, no tenderness in the way Melkor fists his fingers into Sauron’s hair, only desperation and relief and _finally, finally_ hanging in the air between them.

 

After a long while (minutes? days? years? it doesn’t matter) Sauron lifts his head and steps back. The look in his eyes makes Melkor’s breath catch, for it is so filled with happiness and adoration that he can’t help but allow a fond smile to form on his face. 

 

There are many things to be said, but there is work to be done, so he says that instead.

 

Sauron’s grin is a shadow of its former glory, but it is good to see all the same. “Where you lead, I will follow.”

 

_I am not leaving you again_ is left unspoken.

 

And Melkor will not let him.


End file.
